


Listening

by implicated2



Category: Frasier - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Multitasking, Phone Sex, Subtle D/s, commentfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/implicated2/pseuds/implicated2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt at Femslash_Kink 2012: <i>Roz getting someone* off with her voice while Frasier's on-air with another caller.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Listening

**Author's Note:**

> *In the orignal prompt, the someone was a stranger. Oops.

The switchboard is quiet, and Doctor Windbag is yammering away to some mousy-sounding man who fears that he's inadequate in bed. Roz covers her yawn. She didn't get nearly enough sleep last night, and for all the right reasons. And though normally she'd be giving Frasier the wrap-it-up signal about now, the drone of his voice is so deliciously easy to tune out.  
  
Roz thinks about Lena. Six feet tall, spread-eagled on the four-poster bed, curvy and soft and clearly giving her a show. The way she took two fingers into her mouth and sucked them down, licking and smiling around them and never breaking eye contact. The way she stripped herself, teasingly, glancing back at Roz as she uncovered her breasts, belly, thighs, ass, inch by inch. The flutter of her eyelashes and the oval of her lips. The way she'd kept her gaze focused on Roz as she came apart, as if every whine, gasp, moan, swear, was just for the woman fucking her.  
  
The board lights up, three lines all at once. One caller wonders if it's normal to collect cat figurines at age thirty. A second—probably pranking—claims to be afraid of her own big toe (she hesitates when Roz asks whether it's the left toe or the right). The third gives her a jolt. “Roz?”  
  
Lena.  
  
“How can we help you, caller?” Roz purrs. And then, “One minute please,” as Frasier looks her way and asks who's next on the line. She sends him the cat figurines call and hopes it lasts.  
  
“Guess where I am,” says Lena. Roz gets a sharp vision of leaving for work that morning, Lena following her naked to the door, sleepy and tractable. “Call me,” Roz remembers saying, and she wonders if she knew all along that Lena would call her here.  
  
“Where are you?” Roz asks now. Frasier seems to have hit some kind of monologue about Carl Jung, which promises to go on for a while and will probably send their listening audience away in droves. Well, today she doesn't mind.  
  
“I'm in your bed,” says Lena. “Where you left me.”  
  
A switchboard light comes on. “Hang on,” says Roz. “Don't move.”  
  
This caller is a talker, and Roz lets him yak through about a generation and a half of family history before telling him to hold. Partly because she's too distracted to figure out how to interrupt. And partly because she's imagining Lena taking her literally: naked, still, sidled up against the cordless phone, waiting for further instruction.  
  
She hears Lena's breathing when she switches lines. “Did you move?” she asks, her voice dropping.  
  
“No.” Breathy, defiant. “Can I now?”  
  
“Not yet,” Roz says curtly, enjoying the power she has, thinking that what she really wants is—  
  
“Can I touch myself?”  
  
 _That._ “I think you'd better.”  
  
She hears Lena breathe in deep, and when she lets it out, there's a low, quiet hum that hits Roz just in the center of her chest. Something moves in her peripheral vision, and she realizes it's Frasier, looking for their next call.  
  
“Keep going,” she tells Lena. “I'll be right back.” Then she sends him the call. “This is Vick. He has a very complicated family.”  
  
“Hello, Vick,” says Frasier. “I'm listening.”  
  
So is Roz. When she switches back to Lena, she takes a minute just to enjoy the sounds of it: gentle, crooning moans; long, slow breaths hissing into the receiver. “Hey, there,” Roz says finally.  
  
“Hey,” says Lena, and Roz can hear her speeding up, getting closer.  
  
“Keep going,” Roz says again, and Lena gives a breathy gasp in response. Roz can picture her there in her bed, one hand on the phone, one between her legs, biting on her lip, gazing up, her eyes almost pleading.  
  
Roz's own breathing has quickened. She doesn't blush, but she feels her cheeks heating up, feels her whole body throbbing. Lights on the switchboard are coming on again, but she ignores them. “I want you,” gasps Lena, and Roz says, “I know. I'm here. Keep going.”  
  
Frasier looks at her, and in a flash of muscle memory, she cues a commercial. _Two minutes,_ she thinks, and she hopes it's long enough. Lena makes a little yelp—she's getting closer—and Roz wants to hear everything, wants every part of Lena's body, Lena's pleasure, for her own. “Tell me how it feels,” she says, and Lena gasps in answer.  
  
“It...” Lena starts, “it... _oh_...”  
  
One minute, thirty seconds. Roz has a hold of herself now; she's focused, feels her attention boring into the phone line. “Go on.”  
  
“I... _oh_... can't... think...”  
  
One minute, five seconds. “You can't?”  
  
“I....” And then she hears it all at once, a hot, desperate eruption, part shout, part moan, part static. She pictures Lena's head thrown back, hips jerking, remembers the 'o' of her mouth last night, the way she shook, shuddered, stilled, never once looking away. Lena goes quiet now, and Roz lets out a breath.  
  
Twenty seconds. They say a quick goodbye and hang up.  
  
A moment later, Frasier throws open the door to the booth. “Now that you're done having phone sex,” he grumbles, “do you think you could give me a half-decent call?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Roz says, feigning innocence.  
  
“You forget,” Frasier answers, “I'm trained in reading people.”  
  
Roz winces. “I left the mic on, didn't I?”  
  
Frasier nods vigorously. “It didn't broadcast. And trust me when I say I'm trying very hard to forget. But if I hear any more about cat figurines, I'll have no choice but to tell all of Seattle exactly why.”  
  
Roz rolls her eyes. “Deal,” she says, reaching out her hand.  
  
“Deal,” answers Frasier.  
  
They shake, he sits back down, and then they're back on air. The switchboard lights up. It's someone with some kind of dull marital spat. Well, at least it's not the big toe lady. Roz yawns again, leans back in her chair, and puts the call through.


End file.
